F You, Father Time
by AliceUnderSkies13
Summary: Jack is a terminally ill warlock that will do anything to save himself. Even if anything means summoning a demon.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is something I posted on Tumblr for Hijack Month in October. I posted it and forgot about it. But then I saw this amazing fanart by miundy-foxy and I thought "what do you know? People actually like this fic" lol, so I'm going to continue it.**

**I will still continue my BH6 one. Both fics are posted on AO3 and anything I post there I tend to finish. So no worries.**

**Anyways, be aware of language, violence, and eventual smut in this fic. Hope you all enjoy!**

**-Alice :)**

* * *

Walmart bags look remarkably like jellyfish, blowing in the wind and tumbling across the parking lot. They're that awkward shade of blue-gray that's kind of menacing, kind of friendly. Like, "hello there, friend, don't mind me. I'm just your friendly neighborhood Walmart bag going about my business. Wouldn't it be a shame if I suffocated you by accident?" It's that shade of blue-gray that covers waiting room floors and school hallways and plastic cases that hold fluorescent lights. Odd, muted, not natural but not unnatural, either. What is it about those Walmart bags?

Just fuck it. Jack doesn't have time to contemplate the existential risk of Walmart bags. He's carrying four of them and jogging across the pavement. Faded white and yellow stripes slashed by tires and old tennis shoes like the ones he's wearing now. The laces are chewed. He runs and sweats through the three layers of cardigans. It's damn embarrassing, that's what it is. If someone peeked out their window, they would see him staggering with his sweaty ass clothes and his Walmart bags and his hobo hair and his bloodshot eyes that make him look like a pothead. The invisible idiot that lives upstairs with his three-legged cat.

He never comes out, they say. And when he does, he always looks like shit. Even in the eighty-five degree heat weighed down with humidity and mosquito spray, he's wearing layers and a scarf. Nose red, eyes sinking into his face. Here's something nice: if he ever needs to dress up as a zombie, he won't have to put on any makeup, 'cause he already looks the part. Jackson Overland, the walking mess. The sick, stupid, desperate mess. His legs are Jell-O when he climbs the stairs. The apartment complex is the kind you see in B-List horror movies. All the doors on the outside, all the blinds white and straight and closed. Neighbors you'll never talk to lean against the metal railing, smoking and peeling the chipped green paint. Couples argue some nights, people bang on shut doors, people scream and call 911 and the cops show up at two in the morning. Sometimes there are people you have never seen and will never see again. They stare at you as they walk down the stairs, bag in hand.

Hey. Hey, is that a Walmart bag? Jack always asks them what's in it, but they never answer. No one ever does. So he watches tenants come and go from the safety of his apartment, smoking and staring out the window. His neighbors don't talk to him. They call him a—

"Fucking weirdo." The little girl that lives next door says it when he's trying to find his keys. She's got her hands behind her back, rocking on her kitten heels. Those are some nice shoes for a six-year-old, blue and strappy. Jack never knew they made heels that small.

"That's a bad word, Sophie." He doesn't look at her, just keeps looking for his keys. He shakes his jacket and rifles through his pockets, hoping he doesn't drop his bags. "Doesn't your mother teach you anything?"

"She taught me how to color inside the lines." The keys clatter to the concrete. She stares at them. "Do you know how to color inside the lines?"

"Yeah, yeah. I've got a bunch of coloring books in my apartment. It's great."

"You don't sound like you think it's great."

Jack sighs. "I like coloring books, okay Sophie? But I'm trying to do something right now. I'm trying, shit, I'm trying to find someth—"

"Do you have cancer?"

He's about to kick the door, but stops. "Huh?"

"Mommy says you look sick all the time, she says you have cancer."

"Well, I don't. So you can tell her that."

"Then what do you have? Mommy said, one time she said, everyone has something." It's the most innocent question ever. Wrapped up in this voice that says things like fuck, coloring, and mommy all in one conversation. Big brown eyes inside her round face, hair hanging straight and stringy. She's a doll. Not in the cute sort of way. No, no, she's one of those demon dolls that smiles and says they're going to kill you.

Not that she means to be. No, no, not at all. It's unintentional. But it's the way she asks the question, the way she blinks and looks up at him. Or maybe it's not her, maybe it's the question itself. Because he's stuttering and shaking his head.

"N-Nothing. I don't have anything."

"But you look bad."

"This is how I look. It's not nice to say those things to people."

"But if you're sick, you should go to the doctor." Sophie twirls pieces of hair. "Mommy goes to the doctor to get check-ups all the time. You should go, too."

"Okay, sure, I'll go." This is fucking ridiculous. Groaning, he rests his forehead against the chipped green paint. "Where the hell are my keys?"

"They're right there. I'll get them."

"Uh, thanks." He kneels and takes them from her tiny hands. So small and warm. Like she's had her hands stuffed in oven mitts.

They're eye-level for half a second. Then she bends down to pick up a dead dragonfly that's been flattened against the concrete. Jeweled wings catch the orange sunlight. They're stained glass windows with a few pieces punched out.

Jack stands up a little too fast. Sophie's face goes round and round. Shit, he needs to get inside. The Walmart bags are getting heavy.

"You okay, you fucking weirdo?"

He shakes his head. "I'm fine. Thanks for finding my keys. And don't say that word anymore."

"I'll try not to."

She's still standing there when he closes the door. Little rectangle of light, getting skinnier and skinnier till it starves itself and dies. Rest in peace.

He locks the door. Deadbolts it, moves the chain, and turns the handle twice. It's locked, locked, locked. Three is a good number. God has three parts. Satan has three faces. Walmart had a sale on generic peanut butter today, three for one. Jack bought six jars. Eye pressed against the peephole, he looks for Sophie. Gone. The concrete walkway is empty and silent. Cars speed by on the highway, but that's the only sound. Or is it? Listen harder, people are talking in the apartment downstairs. No, that's a television, blaring and screaming about the stock market. It's the same people that blast C-Span at three in the morning. Jack would rather hear gunshots than that shit.

But it's clear, that's all that matters. No one outside, no one peeking through the window. He slides down, feeling every slit and gash in the paint. Fingernail marks, knife wounds, angry shards of broken glass. This poor door has been through enough. But he still beats it with the back of his head and drops the bags onto the floor. Peanut butter jars roll across blue-gray tile. Everything else is fine, a few black candles, some matches, some cracked geodes that are stuck on cheap necklaces, and a package of Crayola chalk. Nothing broken except for the blue piece of chalk, it's cracked down the middle now.

Jack's head is cracked down the middle. An antennae TV hit with a sledgehammer, a stack of paper shoved through the shredder, a slab of meat carved out with a cleaver. It's happening more often. Twice a day instead of once. Sudden instead of creeping. When he was in line at the cash register he felt it coming on. A feeling even more shitty than usual. Shaking legs and fingers, cold sweat and hot body. Fuck, the fever just skyrockets. One second, gone. And then it's in his bones, weighing down his eyes and tongue and head. And the cashier is telling him that his total is $16.50.

$16.50. Sir? Sir? Hello? Hey!

Someone shook him. He nodded, handed them a twenty and walked away.

Jack drove with the heat turned all the way up. Teeth chattering, he muttered some kind of shit spell and turned all the lights green. Did anyone get in an accident? Who gives a fuck?

Just drive.

He did.

And Sophie's face still lingers in his brain. "What do you have? What do you have?"

"Nothing…" He whispers it and covers his eyes with one hand. The other twitching on the tile. It's easy. Just close your eyes, breathe, and ignore the itching. It's inside, your esophagus, your intestines, your stomach. This itching that doesn't go away, no matter how much you scratch your skin. Because it's inside you, dummy. And that's the whole point. One time, the landlord discovered his three-legged cat. No pets allowed, so they fed it a can of tuna with a few razor blades in it. The cat came home, meowed at Jack, and threw up all over the tile. Teeth bared, it tried to bite its own stomach out. It succeeded and died like a disemboweled soldier on a beach.

Fucking landlord. They've caused Jack so many angry tears. It's easy enough to bring a cat back, but still. Now it never leaves the apartment. Poor, traumatized thing. Who knows what it saw in cat hell?

Jack wants to claw out his stomach. And his throat and his tongue and everything inside. It'll pass, just relax. But no, fucker, you don't get it. You don't get the feeling of a cleaver in your head and razor blades in your stomach. You don't get the raking of nails across a closed shirt. He knows he shouldn't, but holy shit. Three layers of clothes are enough. Right? Enough to keep his fingernails out. So he pretends that he doesn't have hands and he sits on them till they go numb. Fuck, it's awful. Pain that bites and pokes and prods. He lies face down on the tile and tries not to scream into it. At least it's colder down there, on a few weeks' worth of dust and ashes. And he can bang his head against the floor and writhe and dig his nails into his scalp. Dig them somewhere, please, anywhere but in your torso. Don't disembowel yourself, idiot.

Ten minutes, twenty minutes, a fucking half hour. It only ends when the razorblades come out. His razorblades are clumps of congealed blood and black shit that looks like tar. He throws it up in one of the Walmart bags. There's no way he's recycling it now. What a waste.

His three-legged cat nuzzles his sweaty cheek. Then he curls up next to the numb hands and licks every finger. Jack closes his eyes for a while.

He opens them after an hour, maybe two, and sits on the pleather couch he got off Craig's List. God knows what this thing has been through. In the short time it's been at his apartment, it's already been bled on, puked on, set on fire and doused in bleach. Dusted with ashes, covered in feathers and fur and peppered with bone meal that tasted salty on Jack's tongue. His cat sheds all over the damn thing. He uses a quick spell to clean it. But when it's late and he's tired, he lets it sit there in the dark. Alone and filthy. Tonight, he's sprawled across it, chin nodding against his chest. A fan spins overhead. A fan spins next to him, standing and making a humming sound. It's nice. Subtle, settled into the deepest part of his ear. He listens to the hum rather than the TV.

Recovering from an episode takes a minimum of thirty minutes. Jack listens as the feelings slip away. The itching fades, the fever recedes like a tide. When he's sick, it's like he's packed inside a freezer which is packed inside a blazing oven.

But who is he kidding? He's always sick. That's what it does to you, the disease no witch or warlock wants. Ever. It's not like the Bubonic Plague. That's the thing everyone laughs at. They toss jokes like throwing knives and cackle at the stupidity of their ancestors. Because no gets that anymore and if people just took a fucking bath they would have been find. No one makes fun of cancer. No one pokes and prods it with their sharpened words. Oh God, no. You don't say a word about cancer. You don't say a good word or bad word. You say nothing at all.

That's what Jack has, the magical equivalent to cancer. They call it Kronos Disease, not to be confused with Crohn's Disease. Humans can't get it, humans haven't even heard of it. Named after the god that ate his children, the symbolism is so pretentious it's almost more painful than the actual sickness.

Jack could debate that. It's non-contagious, it's sudden, and it's hell. A basic list of symptoms: fatigue, loss of weight, loss of appetite, lowered immune system, fever, sudden instances where your body literally starts to reject your own fucking blood. And then your insides itch until you puke up the black clumps of red blood cells and platelets. It gets worse over time. One day, the instances go from sudden to permanent and you go into freefall. Afraid of its own blood, your fragile little body purges itself of every last drop. Then you lie there, quiet, empty, dead.

Yeah, let's skip that last part.

Jack sits up, blinking and looking for the remote. The cat's sitting on it. "Get up. I'm sick of Modern Marvels."

He hisses.

"Don't be an asshole. I've got five months left, tops. Let me watch something I actually like."

Another hiss.

"Fine. Fuck you."

There's a beat of silence, nothing but the hum of the fans and Jack's coughs. The cat paws the remote. He keeps changing channels until Jack says, "Yeah, whatever, that's fine. Thanks."

It's an episode of America's Next Top Model, some repeat from Cycle One. Girls pose in a Seven Deadly Sins photo shoot. How ironic, one of the rumors among the magic community is that Kronos is caused by Envy. More of a superstition than a rumor, but still, that doesn't stop them from whispering behind his back.

He doesn't move until the episode is over.

It's over and he's migrated to the bathroom. Where the countertop is made of plastic and the floor is chipped tile. Where the light bulbs flicker with dead mosquitoes, the toothbrush holder is full of crystals and dust, and spell books are stacked behind the toilet. Where a summoning circle is drawn on the seat in black Sharpie, just in case he needs to summon something while taking a shit. Hey, it happens. Where the shower curtain is held up by a rusted rod and the faucet leaks cold water.

Where he gets the idea. The sudden, stupid, desperate idea. He stares at the Sharpie circle and thinks of the black candles he bought at Walmart.

Sophie's face wavers in his head. "But if you're sick, you should go to the doctor."

Jack smiles. Oh sweet, little Sophie, he has something better than a doctor. He has cheap candles and crystals and ash and a bag of black, tarry blood. He has magic and desperation, a dangerous combo.

He has nothing to lose.

When Jack was eighteen, he had sex for the first time. It was with an older warlock, one with slicked back hair and ashy skin. They fucked in a basement, over a half-done pentagram that no one ever finished drawing. Those years had been crazy. Jack jumping with so much hot energy, his thighs always burning, his pupils always dilated. He begged for it on the rotten, wooden floor and wrapped his legs around that boney ribcage. A few words for it: strange and split open.

When Jack was nineteen, he met a girl with color changing hair. Her hands were small, she masturbated while they kissed. He'd never known anything hotter. Except for the candles that burned black beside them, the words she whispered in Latin and Hindi that brought spots to his eyes. There was a vase of dried peonies on her nightstand and her sheets were covered in stars. He'll never forget the way his eyes rolled when she fingered him.

When Jack was twenty, he started dancing at a club. Easy money, and it was fun. An Australian with magic tattoos watched him every Friday night. Jack crawled towards him on his hands and knees. Watching the tattoos spiral and rock like boats on the water. So close, they were about to kiss. But they didn't pay him enough for that, so he breathed alcohol in the Australian's face and slunk back to the pole. His cock strained against his thong that night.

When Jack was twenty-one, he got sick. Fucking Kronos and his terrible timing. At the pinnacle of his career, everything fell apart, unraveled like bandages at his feet. You can't work if you keep coughing up blood. You can't dance if your body keeps seizing up in pain. You can't do shit. At least, that's what they told him.

Now he's twenty-two and dying slowly. We're all dying, if you want to get existential about it. But what kind of pretentious asshole looks into the face of someone with borrowed time and says "I'm dying, too"?

A lot of people in the magical community are pretentious assholes. They roll their eyes whenever he goes to the bar and coughs into a paper napkin.

"What's the point of even coming if you're just gonna be sick all night?"

"Fuck, we get it. You're dying. So what? We all are."

"There's gotta be something out there, some kind of spell. You're just not looking hard enough."

And then he's had enough. He slams his drink so hard it shatters. Shaking, blood running down his chin, he leaves without paying. Yeah, he can't go there anymore.

But that doesn't matter right now. All he cares about is drawing the perfect circle. Chalk held between his teeth, he stands up and evaluates. Not bad for a dead man. He's always been good at drawing circles. Someone once told him that's the mark of a crazy person. With one swipe of his hand, he turns the chalk into a cigarette and lights it with a thought. Smoke veils his face. For a moment, his eyes glow like they used to.

It's almost complete. The circle is drawn, the candles are arranged. He finishes the inside, drawing straight lines and sigils he memorized when he was twelve. No right angles. The paper crinkles when he kneels. Don't rip, damnit. His whole apartment is made of tile, so he has to unroll massive sheets of paper he bought at some craft store. Layers black and thin, he's got to be careful. Smoke slips through his lips, sweat beads on his forehead. Almost done, almost…

"Fucking finally." Jack stands up without using his hands. It's harder now, but he can't risk smearing the chalk. Rocking on his heels, he smiles and flicks ash onto the tile. Light the candles one-by-one. Try not to cough on them. Pile ash in the middle of the pentagram, dump the Walmart bag out and watch the congealed blood harden like lava. It's disgusting as shit, but he doesn't notice or care. A few deep breaths later and he's ready at the edge of the circle. No book. No spells scrawled on torn napkins. Just Jack standing and looking like death and rolling the cigarette between his teeth.

When he utters the words, the burned out butt hits the floor. It's brief, it's Latin, like most spells are. Using a dead language is so fucking pretentious but he does it anyways. He's not calling Satan or asking for Asmodeus to come and grant him a perfect sex life. He's just asking for a little bit of help.

Basically it's, "Look, I know there are plenty of demons out there looking for a contract. I'll be honest, I'm sick and dying and I would really like to live past Halloween. Maybe even longer. Don't try to scam me, cause I'll fucking know. Just don't try it. And don't pop in just to taunt me or whatever other crap you all do. I'll do anything short of chucking a baby out a window for this contract. If you show up, make it worth my while."

No answer.

The fan spins overhead. The fan spins beside him. A drop of water falls from the faucet and into the kitchen sink. Someone talks next door, they're muffled and sound like they're underwater. Jack sighs. Well, you can't expect demons to come when they're called.

No, wait, you can. You can definitely expect them to come when they're called because that's the whole point of a summoning. That's the whole fucking point.

"Fine, let's try again."

He walks to the pantry and grabs six more candles. Fifteen minutes later, he's walking back, and then he's back and grabbing six more candles. The digital clock clicks every half hour. The pantry door is cracked open, spider webs strung across the white wire shelves. Jack holds his lighter over the black wicks, his face shining with sweat in the orange light. It's not working. Every word is spat out, enunciated and said with so much force he's afraid he'll spit his teeth out. There's no way he's saying it wrong. No way in hell. But just to be safe, he'll check Google. Once. Twice. Three times. Sweat drips onto the screen. He coughs and ignores the pain in his side. Those candles were cheap, less than a dollar at Walmart. He's going through them like an alcoholic through a bottle of vanilla extract. Maybe it's the candles? Maybe their flames are too weak?

Standing on a wooden step-stool, he rifles through his closet. There's a lot of shit on that shelf. A toy top, a spool of ribbon, a screwdriver, and a water gun. An old container of pudding, knitting needles, a clear umbrella that lets you see the sky when it rains. He tosses the box of markers and the pair of handcuffs aside. Oh, that's where his crowbar went. And look over there, the blue hoodie his boss gave him when he worked at the Fork and Dagger. A kinky ass nightclub with chrome seats and sex swings made of leather. All Jack ever did was dance, but he would sit in the swings after closing every now and then. His boss gave him the jacket as an "employee of the month" present. Hundred percent silk, with his name written on the back. Frost.

He throws the pudding container on it. There's an extra big candle in here somewhere. It's thick and white, the wick at least an inch long. It looks out of place in the circle. No one cares. Another hour later and the circle has been changed again. It's a sloppy summoning circle with mismatched candles all around. Jack kneels at the edge. It's so hot, his pants are off and he's sitting on sweaty, sticky legs that look so, so white in the darkness. Wrinkled T-shirt and boxer briefs. There he is, the most pathetic warlock in all of history. That skin is so fucking pallid and those eyes are so sunk in. The hands clench and unclench on naked thighs. The thighs shiver 'cause the A/C just turned on. Halleluiah, that thing's been broken for a week. But the most pathetic warlock ever doesn't care. He sways, staring into the circle, at the pile of dried blood, and wondering what he has to do.

Who he has to be.

How he has to act.

What he has to say.

Something, anything. Anything at all, just to make someone come. Somebody, anybody. He traces over the chalk circle, making the lines hard and round. And then he throws the chalk at the wall and it shatters. Staring into the circle, watching the blood and wax and fire congeal. His fingertips are at the edge. He touches the circle and his eyes glow and roll back into his head. The words that come out are Latin and something else. Something weird, that's for sure. Weird as fuck. It's all numb. The pain in his side reduced to buzzing. An obnoxious buzzing that swallows his ears whole. Wicks burn brighter, brighter. Flames turn blue, turn red, turn black. Jack can't stop. He can't let go now. Words come so fast he bites his tongue, but it keeps moving amidst the blood. A steady stream that slips down his chin and hits the ground. With the friction fast as lightning, he's moving and shaking and ripping the paper apart with his legs. Nails dig into his palms. More words. Less fire. Fast speech. Slow desire. Desire that burns like candles as the digital clock screeches. It can't click, can't bring itself to change the time. Not while the fire is lit, smoldering in Jack's empty eyes. He grabs the darkness with both hands, forces it to stop, stop, stop. The fans keeps spinning. The pantry door slams shut. The faucet whistles as white hot water comes rushing out. A candle explodes, a grenade of color and wax. Both hands on the circle, Jack never lets go. He grits his teeth, the fan crashes down onto the coffee table, and it's over.

It's all fucking over.

Jack feels the shards of glass around his feet. He doesn't move. People are shouting next door. Footsteps, and someone's knocking on his door. Sophie screams, "Hey, hey! Hey, fucking weirdo! What was that? You okay?"

He should be nice and answer it. Stick his face out, smile, and say, "Hello, little one. There's nothing to worry about here, I'm clumsy, that's all. Oh, silly me!"

But that would be stupid for several reasons.

One, he's not like that. There's no way he could ever say those words seriously. No way in hell.

Two, Sophie is small and happy and perfect. If she looked at his face right now, her little world might break apart.

Three, he can't move. He literally can't move. Because someone is standing in the middle of his circle, toes curled into the dried blood and wax. A man that looks kind of like a dragon. Or maybe it's a dragon that looks kind of like a man? Whatever it is, Jack can't look away. Not because he's never seen eyes that green. Not because he's never seen freckles that almost look alive. Not because he's never seen nails sharp as knives or horns that curve like a telekinetic's spoons.

No… it's what the dragon man says.

It's what the demon whispers as he cocks his head.

"Uh, hey, there. Need some help?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Okay... I know it's been months. I am a terrible person for making people wait. I have no excuse except for school and writer's block and shit like that, but anyways, here is chapter two! **

**Enjoy.**

Glass shards look remarkably like ice, fractured and shining beneath a hundred watt bulb. In the coldest parts of the world, ice is perfect. Ice is clear. Ice is what scientists marvel at and touch with shaking hands. They say, "Wow, wow. Just look at this. This is amazing, how ancient and pure this is. Were the dinosaurs alive when this was made?"

Jack doesn't give a fuck about dinosaurs.

Or purity.

Or ice.

His ice is lifeless and warm. The A/C is dying again, but there's no time to call a repairman. His shaking hands clutch shards of glass. How did they get there? Five seconds ago, they were gathered around his feet. Now they're in between his fingers, digging into the lines of his palm. Glass here, glass there, glass everywhere. All over the floor and ceiling. Seriously, there are pieces embedded in the popcorn ceiling. The most dangerous stalagmites ever.

Or are they called stalactites?

He wracks his brain. Nothing. Every nerve ending is torn apart, shot to hell. It looks like the aftermath of an F5 in Tornado Alley. But Dorothy doesn't live in his fucked up grey matter. She follows the yellow brick road, not the red neuropathway. She walks off with her heart and her courage and her brain, leaving her murder far behind. 'Cause no one cares about the witch beneath the house. They have a vague awareness that she is evil, and that is all they need. Someone tells someone else that she deserves to die. So she dies. And no one cares. They watch Dorothy walk off and they smile.

Yay for the girl that's got her heart and her courage and her brain. She'll be okay. Dorothy will be okay.

The warlock is not okay. He's hiding in his house and watching the blood run down his wrists. The glass shards will never be cold, so he opens both hands and lets them fall. They sound like raindrops.

Sophie sounds like a cop. She bangs on the door and screams, "Hello! Hello! Open up, you fucking weirdo! Open up or I'll open you up myself!"

"Don't even try it, kid." He whispers it into the darkness. A few of the candles are still lit. They wink and beg for attention. He looks at them, he looks at the puddles of wax and the piles of glass. He looks at the fallen angel that used to be his fan. He looks at everything but the demon. It's still there, of course. Sitting criss-cross-applesauce in the middle of the circle.

When Jack was in elementary school, he threw a cup of applesauce at his teacher. "Why do you tell us to sit that way, stupid head? It doesn't make any fucking sense!" He was sent to the principal's office for saying "stupid head".

"That's a very interesting story."

"Huh?" Jack flinches, finally looking at the demon man thing. "What do you mean?"

"The story about your teacher. It's interesting. Though I don't know why you told me about it."

"I… I didn't mean to. I'm just, uh, thinking in words… like, spoken words. Sorry."

"No need to apologize." The demon rolls his shoulders back and cracks his neck. "I can tell you're flustered, so I'll ask you again. Do you need any help?"

"Help?"

"Uh, yeah, help." He rolls his eyes. "Do I need to pull out a dictionary for you?"

Jack looks at the floor. The demon's eyes make his head hurt. "You have a dictionary? Where?"

"Up my ass. Okay, I don't actually have a dictionary up my ass but you're really pissing me off. Why did you summon me? Do you need any help?"

His laugh is ice and glass all mixed together. "Are you really asking that question? Look at me! I'm half-naked, sitting in my own blood and puke. My fan has rocket launched itself into my coffee table. My neighbors are screaming and I'm gonna die soon. Like actually die! Do I need help… what do you think?"

The demon blinks. If you pay attention, you can see the second eyelid swipe across his pupils. "I'm gonna go with yes. Yes, you do need help."

"You're a smartass."

"I can be whatever I want. I don't need anything from you. You're the one that needs help, remember?" He starts picking at a loose scale on his elbow. "I've got nothing to do, I can sit in this circle forever. So just watch yourself."

Jack swallows. Laugher turns to bile in his throat. Shit, it's so hard to hold it back. The itch climbs up from his lungs, from every organ inside his body. So much for a snarky comeback; he can't even get a word out. His retort is a fit of coughing and puking up blood.

"W-Wait! I-I was just screwing with you!" The demon's flailing, rocking back and forth on his feet and waving his hands all over the place. "Stop, stop, stop! I'm not an asshole… really, I'm not. Are you okay?"

The tile is cold against Jack's cheek. He's sideways, staring at the cracked wall and the popcorn ceiling and the snuffed out candles. Huddled together, prayer-like, he feels the blood on his lips.

The demon lies down beside him. Fuck those green eyes, they're penetrating.

"Um, hello? I didn't mean to break you. Is that what I've done, fragile human? Broken you?"

"No." He smiles through bloody teeth. "You didn't break me. Father Time did."

A few seconds of silence. Or maybe a few years. Green eyes rove every line and pore, a dragon inspecting its horde. The demon licks his lips. They're pink lips, wet lips. And the tips of his fingers are wet, too. When he cocks his head, he almost looks like he's dripping. Dripping with what, though? Jack can't tell. All he can see is the shine of the demon's claws, the moisture beading on his stomach. For a moment, they are both trapped in the circle. A cage of heat and fire, of broken fans and dead candles.

Jack can feel every line in the floor. Scuffs from moving furniture, scratches from drunken games of midnight golf. He got rid of that golf club ages ago, thank the gods. And there are chips from chasing the cat around, from his attempts at doing CrossFit, from his brief and boring life. The floor is alive. More alive than he is. All those scratches, thinner than strands of hair, are veins. Each tile is a cell. The cheap insulation is fat and the paint is peeling skin. His apartment is more put together than he is. Even as it falls apart, bit by bit, it will always outlast him.

This must be a sad thought, because he starts to cry. Time speeds up and the demon is there, blinking in the silence.

He watches Jack. He opens his mouth but doesn't say anything. Threads of spit look like Chantilly lace.

Jack didn't know that was possible, but it is.

The demon clicks his tongue. "Ohhh, I get it. You have Kronos, don't you?"

Jack tries to answer, but someone is killing the silence. Voices rise from the first floor. Someone starts yelling. Someone makes a phone call. The demon's jaws snap shut and the silence dies. Sophie is still banging on the door, screaming and crying.

"Open up! Open up! Weirdo? Jack?"

Now the mother is outside. She bites her nails and talks at the same time. "My neighbor… yeah. Like five minutes ago. Sounded like a crash or something, like a—no, no, not like a bomb, like a crash. I don't know what happened, that's the point. And now my power's out… I'm not sayin' it's related, it's just weird. Can you just send somebody? No, wait, I—Listen you dumb fuck, I said it wasn't a bomb! Just send a cop, asshole."

Sophie kicks the door. "Yeah! Listen up you dumb fuck!"

"No, baby, don't say that. Only Mommy can say those words." She starts knocking on Jack's door. They're fast, short knocks. Almost like slaps. "Hey, Jack! You in there?"

Yes, he's in there. Lying on the floor and staring at a demon. The room spins, all he can hear are the words 'cop' and 'bomb'. Cops are coming, and not in the sexy way. They're straddling their motorcycles. They're tearing up intersections, red lights reflected in their eyes. They're gonna bust down his door and find him in this unexplainable situation.

You can't get out of this one, Jack. Cops will write you off as a psycho cultist. Paramedics won't know what to make of the blood filling up your lungs. You'll be another example in a pamphlet about the improper treatment of Kronos Disease. The idiots at the bar will shrug and say, "What a shame. But we all become statistics in the end, don't we?"

So you have two options:

Run now before law enforcement finds you. Flee the country and change your name, maybe even dye your hair.

Or you can kill law enforcement, destroy it in its entirety. Rid the world of all police officers and die a sick, but happy man.

"Or I could help you out."

"Huh?"

The demon snaps his fingers in front of Jack's face. "You're thinking in spoken words again."

"Sorry." The room spins faster. But he still sits up. "I shouldn't talk to myself… makes me look crazy."

"Well, you just summoned a demon using Walmart candles and sidewalk chalk. I think you're beyond crazy, buddy. But fortunately for you, I don't mind." He grabs Jack's face with both hands, brings him close. "Would you like me to help you?"

"Y-Yes. Please." His eyes are bulging, so is his brain. It knocks against his skull.

The demon nods. "Okay, then. I'll help you."

"What does that entail, exactly?"

"Whatever you want. I just want one thing." Curved claws dig into Jack's chest. Hard and sharp like diabetic needles. "Your soul."

Jack grins. "That's kinda cliché."

"Well, I'm a demon, so I don't know what you were expecting."

The claws ease up. With shaking fingers, Jack holds the demon's hand against him. He grabs it by the wrist and presses down, thankful for the little patch of heat.

The rainbow-haired girl he used to date would conjure up heat spells when she was on her period. Lying in bed, legs splayed across Gemini, she would close her eyes and press her hands against her abdomen. Right above the subtle dip of her hipbones. Right below her bellybutton.

Jack flopped down next to her. "You making your own hot water bottle or something?"

She sighed. "I've explained this before, dumbass. But I'll do it again because your teeth are so pretty. Heat helps the cramps go away. You don't have a uterus, so you'll never understand. Lucky you."

Yeah, lucky me.

Sure, he'll never know what it feels like to bleed from a vagina, but he knows what it feels like to die. When your head spins and your stomach rolls. He's a ballerina that forgot how to spot. Just keep spinning, you fucking idiot. But I can't, I really can't. No excuses, just keep spinning.

He drags the demon's hand all over his chest, his stomach. Gods, it feels so good.

"I'm sure it does feel good, but what are you doing?"

Jack flinches. Oh yeah, the demon hand is connected to a demon body. For the third time today, he doesn't know what to say. They have to stop meeting like this.

He lets go of the wrist. "S-Sorry. I'm, uh, I'm delusional, okay? I get like this a lot now. I don't even know what I'm doing."

"Are you in a lot of pain?"

Sophie is no longer kicking the door. But her voice drifts up and down the balcony. Police sirens are drifting, too.

"Wow, they're fast today." His vision is pinholing, the blood pounding behind his eyes. "They're usually slower than the pizza guy."

The demon grabs his arms. It's like he's holding a glass doll. "Hey, hey. Stay with me. Are you in a lot of pain?"

Jack shrugs his boney shoulders, then he nods, then he starts to cry. Salty, gross, they're the kind of tears that fall the wrong way. His eyes are sunken and swollen at the same time. Wow. Such a brave and strong little warlock.

The demon rolls his eyes and sighs. "You are the most pathetic human I have ever seen. Come here." He embraces Jack, pulls him close. "Just hold on tight. I can help you get out of here, get away from the police. And I can help you live, too. I offer my help in exchange for your soul. Are you sure you agree to these terms?"

"Yeah, I agree…"

What else can he say? This apartment is a prison. Cracked walls and pipes that smell like sulfur. The fan lies motionless on the floor. This apartment is a box of death. It reminds him of everything he will never have:

No family. Sophie and her mother have 3 meter races across the balcony. When it rains and the pimpled concrete is dotted with water. Barefoot, they run over the wet bumps, falling into each other. At the end of the day, their toes are red and swollen. So they go inside for ice pops and a cold bath. Jack can always hear them laughing through the wall. His sister died years ago.

No love. The couple next door fucks every morning. Jack sees them every so often smoking on the balcony. The girl drives an old Volkswagen that smells like crayons. One time, she asked Jack to help her carry up some groceries. He opened the door and almost gagged. The boy drives nothing. He is driven. He screams and moans every morning. Jack's never heard the girl scream, all she does is pant and growl. But gods, their sex must be so good. Fingernails rake the wall, bed springs shriek, and the beautiful fuckdoll of a boy shrieks right along with them.

No health. Tiles are so thin you can hear everything. Jack's heard arguments about life and death, about cancer and heart disease and rare, incurable diseases. He's heard Grandma fall and break her hip, he's heard Uncle shoot himself, and he's heard Sister overdose on cold medicine. Of course, he'll never meet these people. They are his imaginary family. And they always seem to pull through. Grandma gets a walker, Uncle comes home from the ER, and Sister keeps track of the pills she's taken. They all get to live. Hooray, a happy ending. So where is Jack's happy ending? He falls and bleeds and no one comes to save him. All he has is a three-legged cat that looks at him with eyes full of pity.

He hates that look. Even the cat knows he's dying.

There you have it. The Holy Trinity of things Jack will never have. Maybe he can turn them into a Demonic Trinity. Maybe this demon's warm hands can rearrange the pieces. The claws lace together, create a new kind of prison. Heat grabs hold of Jack's body. The kind of heat that comes from a stovetop. Painful, stupid, tempting. Sophie would reach for this heat. Jack is reaching for it, too. He grips the demon's shoulders and shuts his eyes. The darkness is bathed in red.

And he feels… relief? Numbness? Everything just feels so warm and nice. Jack is a child clinging to a monster's neck.

The neck cracks. "Okay. Since you've agreed, I can help you now. What do you want me to do first?"

"Get me out of here."

"I can do that. Where do you want to go?"

"I don't care. Anywhere that isn't here."

"Sure." He stands up and Jack flinches, legs dangling out from under him. "Uh, you might want to lock your legs around me. Yeah, yeah like that. I don't want you falling off while I'm flying."

Jack's stomach lurches. "F-Flying?"

"Well, yeah, I do have wings."

"Will you be able to carry me? You're not that much bigger than me."

"Okay, first of all, I'm at least a few inches taller than you." He rolls his shoulders, cracks his knuckles. "Second, I can carry anything. Trust me."

"Fine. It's not like I have a choice."

"Just keep telling yourself that." He starts bouncing on his feet. The leathery wings unravel, knocking over an empty flower vase and an expired carton of milk. His breathing is slow and deep. It seems to come from everywhere, not just his lungs. Every muscles expanding and shrinking.

Jack imagines the tendons bundled like straws. Bad move, because now he's nauseous again. He buries his face in the demon's skin and mutters a spell. Something for calmness, something for sleep. It's weak. Summoning the demon sapped all his strength.

"Luckily for you, I don't get tired that easily." The demon's laugh is awkward. He ruffles Jack's hair and cracks his knuckles again. "The cops are knocking on your door, I hear them. I'm gonna use a smokescreen and fly right past them."

"Why can't you use some demon magic or something?" The spell might have been weak, but Jack's words are already slurring.

The demon laughs again. "Why can't you shut up for a few minutes? You don't need to question my methods. Maybe I just want to stretch my wings, ever think of that?"

"No."

"So you should shut your eyes, then. Shut them and go to sleep or something. You'll have a lot of thinking to do once we get out of here, but for now, I'll do the thinking." The summoning circle is still intact. Sloppy, but effective. "Oh yeah, can you break this circle for me? Unless you want the police to find us like this."

"Sure, sure. Hold on." Jack dangles his legs. The demon leans over and lets him smudge the chalk without unhooking his hands. There's no way he can stand on his own right now. His legs are beyond Jell-O. They're pillars of water. Shaky atoms barely fused together.

The door is no longer fused to its hinges. Police bust it open, shouting about a bomb. Sophie's mother is screaming next door, "I said there wasn't a bomb, you dumb fucks!"

Come on, Sophie's Mom, they won't listen. You called 911 and said something about a "power outage" and a "bomb". These cops are pros at selective hearing. No wonder they came so fast.

Armored bodies pour into the apartment. Bulletproof vests and heavy boots. They've been polished for the occasion, how classy. Most of them are wearing masks. But as the idiots at the bar would say, "Aren't we all wearing masks?"

"Is this the military or the police?" The demon whispers it just as the red dots appear on his forehead.

Jack won't turn around, but his eyes are still wide open. "Just get me out of here."

"Don't let go."

A cop screams, "What the fuck is that?!" and the demon conjures his smokescreen.

Dust and black ash rise up from the floor. That's kind of cool. Jack glances sideways at the clouds of ash. It all looks so natural. Thick and swirling, there's nothing strange about it. Except for the demon that stretches out his hand and the warlock clinging to his neck.

Questions pop up. How are you doing that? What are your powers? Where did you come from? Oh, and what is your name?

But Jack's timing has always been off. They need to get away from the police first.

Red dots dance across the smoke. Armored bodies knock against other armored bodies. And those polished boots are covered in dirt. What a shame. A cop without a mask squints and coughs. Looking through the ash, they see something. A glimpse of a claw, a tooth, a wing. But then it all vanishes into the darkness.

And the cop's bulletproof vest is sliced in two. Something rockets past, cutting up vests and skin. No one dies, but no one can really live, either.

Who can live after seeing the thing in the darkness? The thing that everyone fears. It's a beast, a monster. A demon with death wrapped around its neck.


	3. Chapter 3

Bones look remarkably like toothpicks, jutting forward and poking through paper-thin skin. They come to a sharp point. They jab at other people and push them away. Jack's bones are soft and white and angled. If he breathes too hard, he'll crumble into dust. The demon's bones are hard and black and solid. You could use his femur as a sword. They're pressed together, black and white, hard and soft. Their skins sliding over each other. The demon feels the ribs against his stomach. Jack feels the collarbone against his wrists. Locked together, forced together by the shadows. They're flying at the speed of night, the time it takes for you to blink your eyes or check under your bed for monsters.

Jack keeps his eyes shut. He sees nothing, absolutely nothing. Just shades of black lapping over each other likes waves. He thinks of the blood swirling around in the toilet. When he first got sick, he'd stumble into the bathroom at three in the morning, coughing and spitting. The blood was red at first. Normal. It spattered the toilet seat and dribbled down his chin, but it didn't scare him. It actually made him feel kind of cool. Like some badass witch nursing his wounds after a fight. When he coughed into his hands, he let the blood dry before washing it off.

But then it got darker. Abnormal. It went from bright red to mauve, from mauve to brown, from brown to black. And he was afraid. Kronos Disease is a death sentence, the kind of death sentence that doesn't feel real. Maybe if you appeal, your charges will be dropped and you'll be taken off death row? So you smile and sit around. You wait for someone to tell you that you're free to go. Bright red blood is pretty cool, after all. Days pass, months fly by, and no one comes for you. Even the executioner forgets your name. And you are left to rot. Slowly, second by second.

Two weeks ago, Jack was standing on a digital scale. The word BAT flashed on and off.

"Bat? The fuck is bat?"

His cat meowed in the next room.

"No, idiot. I'm not talking about you. I'm talking… oh, gods…"

His stomach churned, the edge of his vision going dark. Standing naked on the scale, he felt for the sink. It's cracked and covered in a layer of grime. Hard water turns the porcelain to dust. He really needs to get that fixed.

Jack knew what was happening. A sharp, roving pain in his side, the feeling that something was squirming inside of him. He sagged against the sink, half kneeling half standing. And his pale knees shook and his fingers grabbed at the porcelain and he couldn't see or hear or move his head. His brain pounded like a heart. Fuck, it's like being on fire. This movement of blood through your skull, being able to feel every bend and break in your veins. This nasty twinge in your gut that makes you want to tear your intestines out, makes you cry and bleed and puke and shit yourself.

Jack spent the night with his head buried in the toilet. No strength to raise his head to the sink. Just bones ground to seashell dust. In the morning, his cat brought him four AA batteries. Turns out that BAT stands for low battery. Who knew?

There are a lot of things Jack should have known after being diagnosed. What medicines to take, what foods to avoid. But he'd just lie on his couch, running his fingers over his abdomen. He'd stare at the ceiling fan and scan himself. The collarbone that he can grab with his thumb and index. The sternum that feels closer and closer each day. The ribs that jut out, an exposed fossil. The soft flesh of his stomach that becomes gray and thin. And the dip of pelvis. You can see the outline of his skeleton.

Once, on a sticky afternoon, he went past his pelvis. It's hard to feel sexy when you're sick. His days at the club are over. The patron with the spinning tattoos used to call him Bambi-legs. Damn right, his legs were long and smooth and his thighs bulged when he danced. The patron would grunt and blush whenever Jack slid down the pole. Opening those thighs, fingers splayed across his thong. Jack almost never got an erection while dancing.

His boss slapped him on the back. "Good work, Jackie, you're always bringing in the most money!" He turned to the other dancers, all of them packed into a dressing room. "Ya see why he makes all that cash, boys? He makes it 'cause he's got control. While all those assholes are in the audience trying not to come their pants, he's up there just doing his thing. He's got control, boys. And people come here 'cause they wanna lose control, they wanna feel like the helpless ones. Jackie knows how to do that."

The boys wanted to learn. Boys as old as forty, wearing crow's feet like eyeliner. Boys as young as fifteen, their lips wet and swollen. How do you do it? How do stay so focused? How are you so relaxed?

"Easy. I don't look at anyone. I keep my eyes open, but I don't look at anyone."

A nineteen-year-old cocked his head. "What do you mean? What do you look at when you're dancing? What do you see?"

Jack shrugged. "Whatever I wanna see."

For a warlock, that could be anything. He could see through the eyes of his cat, he could stare at the flames of Hell.

That afternoon, lying silent on his couch, he saw himself grinding against the pole. The patron's pupils growing. Jack stuck his hand into his boxers and grabbed his dick. It was hard. What a surprise. Ever since getting sick, his sex drive was hopeless. A pathetic flatline. Now he was feeling it, the familiar pressure. Before Kronos, he was always getting off. Thus is the life of a socially awkward warlock. Sure, he fucked around with garden witches and sirens and the occasional vampire. A succubus even invited him to a threesome once. But once everyone knew about "the shut-in that angered Father Time", he was done.

No one wants to fuck a sick person. They don't want to break you or use you. No more one night stands, their guilt would kill them. Because what kind of monster would mindlessly fuck a dying man? They think they're being good, moral citizens, but they're not.

They're depriving Jack of normalcy.

That's why he spent thirty minutes groping himself. Couch sticky with sweat, tongue caught between his teeth. Muffled voices drifted through the floor. He arched his back and listened to the slap, slap, slap. It was gentle at first. Careful, Jack, you don't want to break yourself. Then he got tired of waiting. You're gonna die soon, dipshit, just go for it. So he peeled his boxers off and started humping the couch. Poor couch, you are so abused. Jack rode it, grinding into the cushion. Stuck, unstuck, his skin salty with sweat. He held on, hard, looking at nothing and gritting his teeth. He wanted nothing more than for someone to take him from behind.

When Jack came, he saw a glimpse of his cat in the bathroom mirror. Then darkness and a single candle. He came to, panting. For a few minutes, he felt… fine. Wow, it looks like masturbation is the cure. Breaking news, a terminally ill man heals himself by jerking off. A true Christmas miracle.

Five minutes later, his stomach was cramping and he puked all over the coffee table.

So much for feeling sexy.

Those are just memories, though. Shards of glass that he can sift through. The present is much worse; he needs to pay attention. Shadows swoop by, bat wings and TV screens and blacktops. He's flying through darkness, from one black heart to another. Cheek pressed against the demon's chest, he decides to open his eyes. At first, they won't open. They're sown shut.

Black nails trail across his face. "Go ahead. You can look."

Jack looks. It's a blur of dawn and dusk, stripes of black that seem to melt away. Something slices the darkness every so often. Violent shapes of color. A neon blue sign that says CIGAR BAR. Dirty yellow teeth sawed down to jagged points. Red roses wilting beside a headstone. Green traffic lights and orange safety cones. And there goes a grey alligator walking through a parking garage. The demon must be channel flipping. None of these images seem real. Jack recognizes them all.

How long is this going to last?

"We're almost there. I'm just getting a feel for the area."

"Oh." Jack swallows hard. "Getting dizzy. I'm gonna close my eyes…"

"Go ahead."

The colors disappear. Jack returns to darkness, to the shards of memories wedged in his brain. He sees himself playing cards with Sophie. Crooked bangs in her eyes, a pink tiara slipping down her skull. She smiles.

"You got any two's?"

"Uh, yeah. I do."

"Good." She snatches them all away. Her fingers are hooks. All those little fish are tucked behind her grubby hands.

The rain is hot and sticky. It drips down the awning and onto the balcony. They're sitting on the pimpled concrete, playing Go Fish and fanning themselves with the cards. Inside Sophie's apartment, a woman is crying.

Sophie sniffs and pulls at her T-shirt. "Mommy's just upset that she can't drink Coke anymore."

"Huh? She can't drink Coke?"

"Yeah… I, uh, I heard her talkin' about her dealer, her Coke dealer, and how he's like in trouble now."

"Oh." Jack clears his throat and talks louder. Louder than the crying woman. "Well, let's just focus on the game. You're really killing me here. I think you're gonna win."

"Duh! Of course I'm gonna win!" Her laugh is razor sharp, it cuts through the 80% humidity. She's right, she does win.

They play a few more rounds. Jack conjures up a Three Musketeer bar when she's not looking and tosses it her way. The rain falls in clumps, like gobs of blood, and the heat seeps into their skin. When the crying stops, Sophie runs back inside.

"Thanks for playing with me. Maybe next time you'll actually win."

"Yeah, okay." He watches the door slam, and he lies on the concrete, watching the clouds part around the sun.

"Okay, we're here." The memory fades away. Everything goes to shit.

"Huh?"

"We're here, dumbass. Open your eyes." Black nails scratch his face. "Open. Your. Eyes."

And the voice is straight from the seventh circle of hell. Sinful, laden with thorns. It's like a harpy is whispering in his ear.

"The fuck?!" Jack gasps and lurches forward. He hits several things. A side table, a bottle of wine, a wooden floor. Glass shatters and he's lying in a puddle of wine and blood. He blinks. "Where… where the hell am I?" Another blink.

Drops of wine and blood drift upwards, towards the ceiling. It's made of wood, too. And the drops are sucked into the roof, the glass shards somersaulting into the sky. His magic is getting away from him. When he's scared or nervous, it tends to do that. It seeps out of his skin like sweat, infecting everything around him. But why does everything float?

Now the table is against the wall. A plastic palm tree is painted into a corner. Jack lies on the floor, looking up at the ceiling and trying not to breathe. There's a rocking chair behind him, he must have fallen out of that.

"Hey, you need to relax, okay? Just calm down. You're safe now, you're away from all those cops."

"T-That's nice, but where am I?"

"Stop making everything float and I'll tell you." There's that harpy voice again. It comes from the mouth of a shadow, a shadow with green eyes and dragon scales. The demon crouches over him, blinking and licking his lips. "Wow, in the light, you really look like shit."

"Ha ha, very funny. Now answer my question, where are we? Or how about telling me your name?"

The demon laughs. "You're just full of questions. You must be feeling better."

Now Jack laughs. "My stomach hurts and my head's killing me, but that's beside the point. I just want to know things now. Now that you've actually proven yourself…"

"Proven myself? As if I have to do that. You're the one that summoned me, you sick little warlock. But I'll tell you my name if you promise to stop all this magic shit."

"I'll try."

"Okay. Well, I'm Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III. It's a family name. You can call me Hic."

Jack laughs again, blood dribbles down his mouth. "That's a stupid name."

"Whatever. At least I'm not stupid enough to sell my soul to a demon."

"Very true…" Closing his eyes, he wills gravity to work again. Shards of glass fall around him, a piece gets lodged in his hair. "There. Happy?"

"Yeah. I prefer not having broken glass dangling over my head." Hic bounces on his heels and licks his lips again. "So… tell me your name again?"

"Jack."

"Jack. I like that." He cocks his head, brown hair in his eyes. "So, Jack, how are you?"

"Still dying, but I'm okay."

"Good, good. Can you stand? I want to show you around."

"Uh, sure." He reaches for Hic. The demon pulls him up, black nails scraping his arms. The world goes dark for a moment. Those few seconds after standing, splotches of ink bleeding into your eyes. The darkness lasts for 2.5 seconds. There's pain in those two breaths. A knot in his stomach, a knife in his mind. It's all a brick on his heart, forcing his body to the ground. But he stands up and shakes the pain away. This is how you live. You learn to deal with it.

"Okay. I'm fine."

"No you're not." Hic grabs his wrists. "Look around."

The ink dries and he can see the cabin. Flat, heavy panels cover the wall and floor. Oak maybe? Or something else. Jack smells melaleuca, there must be a few paperbacks outside. There's the hint of hot rain, the humidity that settles in your lungs. Jack sees it from the outside in. The cypress trees and the air plants that throttle their throats. A manmade lake full of gators, a flock of mourning doves. Then the cabin with its rotted wood and sagging roof. Windows are boarded up with hurricane shutters, Jack can see handprints on the glass. It's a small house, cabin, trailer park thing. Not much furniture, just a table, a rocking chair, and a bed. The kitchen is jammed into one corner, right next to a plastic palm tree. But there are real plants, too, potted ferns and fichus and Venus fly traps. So many cracked mason jars stuffed with sandy dirt. It's cluttered, but not dirty. All of the kitchenware is made of steel and cast iron, Jack smells them. The just out of the dishwasher smell, expect there is no dishwasher and those bowls haven't been moved in months.

The dust can't settle because of the draft. Weeds grow in the holes in the floor. If you stick your face against the wall and squint, you can see outside.

No A/C. At least there's a bathroom. Sure, its' the size of a janitor's closet, but that's good enough. Jack just needs somewhere to puke in peace.

He looks up. Spider webs stick to the ceiling, look at the big black spiders with the empty eyes. Jack's always liked spiders. They kill the mosquitoes that are drawn to his blood for some reason. He feels one on his neck.

Slap! And it's gone. "Shit. This place is a dump."

Hic leans against the gas stove. "It's better than your apartment."

"Yeah… I don't think so."

He rolls his eyes. "At least you don't have cops banging at your door. And you don't have to listen to people arguing or fucking all night."

"I guess." Jack spins in slow circles, his hand still on his neck. "But where are we? I get that I'm in a shitty cabin, but where is this?"

"Outside of town. Away from all the crap that makes people like you crazy." Hic sits on the stove, absentmindedly conjuring tiny flames. On, off, on, off. The burners glow blue. "I spend most of my time up north, like way up north, so I didn't have much time to scope this place out. What we were doing, after we left your apartment, that's called shadow jumping. I was moving from shadow to shadow, trying to find a safe place for you."

"Can people see you when you do that?"

"No. Sometimes they just see a ripple in their shadow, or a reflection in their bathroom mirror. It's subtle enough not to catch attention. But don't you know anything about demons? You did summon me."

Doesn't mean Jack knows anything about demons. Sighing, he sits in the rocking chair. "Uh, no, not really. That's not my area of study. I'm more into spellcasting, conjuring, sourcing, stuff like that. And I'm pretty fucking clairvoyant, too. But demons aren't my thing, they're too… weird."

"You have a familiar?"

"Yeah."

"Where is it?"

Jack looks down at his hands. The lines looks deeper than ever. "I've gotta call him. You left him back in the apartment."

"So call him." Hic keep turning the burners on and catching the blue flames in his hands.

"I can't when I'm tired. Gods, give me some time. It's hot and I'm itchy."

"The mosquitoes are pretty bad. That's why I like the north better." He cracks his knuckles. "No one lives here, by the way. At least, I don't think they do. We're right at the edge of the swamp, so we shouldn't get much foot traffic. You can recover or die in peace."

Jack's stomach drops. "Wait a second, die? I thought we made a deal. You'd fix me in exchange for my soul or whatever."

Hic laughs. "I can't just fix you, man. I'm not the devil, I don't have that much power."

Jack's shaking his head, his hands running down his face. "Sounds like you don't have any power."

"I've got plenty power, okay, buddy? If you saw my real power, you wouldn't be able to handle all this raw demon-ness. But the thing is, what you have is literally a death sentence. No one ever recovers from Kronos Disease. Father Time himself marks you for death."

"Oh okay, so everything I did was useless." As if this is a surprise. Jack was almost expecting it. He spits a clump of blood onto the floor. "I just sold my soul to a demon for no reason. What're you gonna do? Make me chicken soup and read me bedtime stories until I die?"

"I could do that, if you want me to. But I can do something better, something much better." Hic hops off the stove, his wings tucked behind him. He grabs the rocking chair by both arm rests. "I can strike a deal with him."

Okay, this is a little too close. Cold breath against Jack's face, green eyes boring into his skull. "W-Who?"

"Who do you think, dipshit? Father Time."

"But… but he's not real. It's a metaphor for the disease. You know, it takes all of your time away, so it's like you're cursed by Kronos."

Hic rolls his eyes, tongue running over his teeth. "You're a warlock and you can't possibly imagine Father Time being real?"

"Not really."

"Then you're a bigger idiot than I thought." He hangs his head and looks up through his bangs. "Come on, Jack, you're not really an idiot."

Jack swallows hard. "Okay, so I'll pretend that I believe you. If you're right, I just made a deal with a demon so he could make a deal with someone else. Sounds pretty stupid to me."

"Mortals can't deal with Father Time. He wouldn't ever talk to you. But, lucky for you, he'll talk to me. We just have to find him. He's very, very good at hiding."

"You don't know where he is."

"No. But we can find him. And in the meantime, I'll take care of you." Hic cups his face with both hands. "I'll make you feel better."

"Uh, okay."

"What do you want me to do first? I have lots of power, I can do anything."

Jack coughs. "Except cure me."

"Well, yeah. But just answer the question already. What do you want?"

What does Jack want? Lots of things. He wants to be healed, he wants his insides to stitch themselves back together. He wants his cat back. He wants his leather-bound notebook full of made up spells. He wants to fuck, too. He wants someone to fuck him so hard that he forgets about the pain. He wants to play cards with Sophie and watch the rain drip down the awning. And then he wants to take energy from the universe and turn it into something. Steal a pound of flesh and turn it into flames. With every spell he casts, he rips atoms from their homes. That's the kind of magic he likes. Matter cannot be created or destroyed, it can only be transformed. Scanning himself in the middle of the night, scanning the Earth for sources of energy. When he finds one, he siphons all the power away.

Patrons used to slip dollar bills into his G-string. He would turn them into butterflies before their very eyes. Then he'd catch one and crush it in his fist. The more sadistic patrons drooled when Jack shattered the wings.

So yeah, he wants a lot of things. He wants his sex drive back. But for now, there is only one thing. One thing that will make him happy.

He places a hand on his abdomen, just below his ribcage. "Put your face here. Your skin is really warm and, I don't know, soothing? I just, I feel like shit. I don't need anything fancy."

Hic blinks. "You want me to be a hot water bottle?"

"Yeah. That asking too much?" Jack spits the last part. Tears prick at his eyes. "Forget it. You just want to do cool demon shit or whatever. Sorry this job isn't exactly glamorous, sorry I don't wanna go out and lynch Father Time right now."

He tries to stand up but Hic pushes him back down. Gently, oh so gently. "No, no, it's not asking too much. Relax, warlock. I'm not above being a hot water bottle." Hic reaches under his shirt. The black nails tickle his stomach. "Here?"

"Yeah…"

The demon presses his cheek against Jack's skin. Gods, it feels good. Warm waves of heat that radiate through his body. It really is like having a hot water bottle. Jack wants to curl around him and fall asleep.

That's what does.

He sleeps for three hours, maybe four. No dreams. Just darkness mixed with glimpses of his apartment. He's seeing through his cat's eyes, pupils as thin as toothpicks. Good cat, you're hiding from the mean police officers. The apartment's been ransacked. Black numbers written on yellow paper are pinned everywhere. Evidence markers. Caution tape bars the door. Of course, it looks like the home of a cultist. The summoning circle is still there, so is his stash of candles and herbs. The water bottles in his fridge are filled with potions and animal parts. You're a real urban witch, Jack, a real piece of work. The papers will be all over this. Those reporters will get all hot and bothered. Fucking vultures.

There are footprints on the floor. His cat meows and sits in the middle of the circle. Another meow, a sad empty call.

Don't worry, kitty, Jackie will save you.

"I'll… save… you…"

"I don't need saving, buddy."

Oh, it's Hic.

Jack's covered in cotton sheets. They must be five thread count, six at the most. Not that he's used to better. Back home, his sheets were always stained. Now they're white and thrown over his head. It's a cave of sweat and melaleuca. Damn, that smell is so strong. He peeks out, bunching the sheets beneath his chin.

"Hic?"

"Yeah, I'm here. You fell asleep, so I thought I'd put you to bed. You could use a few hours of sleep, or maybe a few years."

He tries to laugh, but ends up coughing. "F-Funny."

"Thanks."

Jack can hear his voice, but all he sees is the wall. The holes in between the wooden slats. "Where are you?"

"Turn your head, dipshit."

Hic is standing at the gas stove, frying pan in hand. Smoke rises from the burners, grey and swirling. It smells husky and sweet. Hic's wings drag behind him, his scales are dark and wet. Has he been outside? He's wearing jeans, that's new. A faded pair of Wranglers with tattered hems. He cut a hole in the back so his tail can slip through.

"Why are you wearing jeans? You weren't wearing anything earlier."

"Oh, I found them under the bed, in a chest." He pulls them up by the waist, they're a little big on him. "Turns out someone might actually live here."

"Great."

"But they're not here now so relax." With a flick of his wrist, the pan starts to sizzle. "You like deer?"

Jack swallows a clump of blood that's been creeping up his throat. "As an animal or as dinner?"

"Dinner."

"Sure. My dad used to take me hunting. But I don't know if I could keep that down right now."

"You need to eat something." The pan sizzles again. A hunk of deer meat slaps a cast iron plate. "We have a limited amount of time to cure you and you need to keep your strength up. So eat the deer."

Jack's mouth waters. Pink blood mixed with saliva. He tries to swallow, but it drips down his chin. He wipes it away. "Fine. I'll eat the damn thing. Don't be mad when I throw up all over the bed."

"Just eat it."

When Hic turns around, Jack chokes on his own spit. The demon's covered in blood, trails of red running up and down his chest. The Wranglers are clean.

"I get a little excited when I hunt." He puts the plate on the bed. "Enjoy."

A circle of silver amidst the white. It's heavy and big, bigger than Jack's face. Heavy enough to hold the sheets down, to make them stretch and groan.

No, that's just Hic groaning as he lies on the bed, back arching against the cotton. He puts his hands behind his head and yawns. "Eat. You need to eat."

"FFFFine." Jack puts the plate between his legs. They're tucked under the sheets, these two mummified lumps that tremble when he breathes too hard. Hic's not a bad chef, he'll give him that. The venison smells amazing, all rough and gamey. Jack's mouth starts to water. There's a pull in his stomach, a gnawing in his throat. He doesn't feel sick, he feels… hungry. Like he could eat anything.

He's pulling the venison apart. It's white with fat and pink with blood, the meat a pale brown. He shreds it with his teeth, the juice dripping down his chin. And he's never been hungrier, not in his entire life. His stomach is an aching hole, his magic is drained. You never realize how empty you are until someone points it out.

Now he's shoving warm meat down his throat. Blood runs down his wrists, smears his lips, and pools on the plate. His heart pounds in his ears. Every inch of his body aflame, the hole growing bigger and bigger. There are teeth chewing on his insides, but he doesn't stop. He'll eat until he's about to burst, skin stretched across his ribcage. This is a feeding frenzy, a feast for the soul. Blood fills his reservoirs. More, more, more.

Try to take another bite, but it's gone. All he has are shaking hands covered in blood and the gnawing at the back of his throat. Like fire slowly dripping down his esophagus. He needs more. More food, more energy, more magic. The gators are snapping and they need to be fed. He leans over Hic, eyes wide and bloodshot.

"I'm still hungry. So hungry that it hurts."

Hic sighs. "I figured. You've been sitting on your ass for so long, vegetable-style, and now your body knows what it's been missing. It's tasted red meat."

"You did something to it, didn't you?"

He grins. "What? The deer? Maybe. I need you alive, okay? I can tell you're powerful, you just need someone to pick you up every once in a while."

"And this is your way of picking me up? By feeding me some kind of bewitched deer steak that makes me act like a fucking animal?" Jack shakes his head, the blood rushing to his brain. "Like, gods, I'm so hungry and I just… I wanna fuck everything."

"Oh, really?"

It's the way he says 'oh, really', his mouth forming a perfect circle. Lips wet with blood and rain, his tongue running over his teeth. It's a cruel joke, that's what it is. Jack's dick strains against his boxers. Now his insides are pulsing, the hunger tangles with the desire. It's a weird feeling. A nasty stomachache overshadowed by a hunger that just won't go away overshadowed by a need to fuck a demon's mouth.

Jack falls back against the sheets, panting. He smears blood all over the cotton.

Hic is up, cracking his back and knuckles. "You know, sex is a powerful thing. You can do a lot of things with sex, make it part of a ritual, use it to summon things, see the future…"

"You're making that up." His smile is so fake. "You just want me to fuck you."

Hic shrugs. "Not really. I'm trying to give you some helpful tips, that's all. 'Cause I didn't do anything to the venison, you're just desperate for something. For solid food, for a good fuck, for power. People like you need a steady supply of power." He steps on the holes in the floor, dancing across the wooden planks without looking down. "You're like a vampire, you can't go long without sustenance. But instead of blood, you drink magic. You drink it straight from the Earth. That's what you do, right?"

Jack nods. He sees it in his dreams, his lips pressed against the dirt. Sucking the sweet syrup from the depths, from the bowels of the planet. Rivers of magic flow through the bedrock, past velociraptor bones and spearheads. Hic's right, he needs power.

Replenish yourself, Jack, fill up every nook and cranny. You need the energy to summon your familiar. You need magic to flow freely through your veins. No more midnight binges, sudden bouts of spellcasting that escape through your fingertips. You need to purge yourself of all this shit, of the apartment with the peeled paint. Your clock is ticking and you finally have a chance. So get up and go running through the swamp. Go talk to the crows that sit on the power lines. Find a power source deep within the ground and feed the gators. For the love of all the gods, do something.

In the closet-sized bathroom, the tub is already filled with blood. Hic must have buried the deer carcass outside. This demon is smart, he knows the rituals. No runes, no sigils, just a tub full of blood and a naked warlock shivering in the cold.

Hic shuts the door behind him. "Take your time. Do whatever weird thing you've gotta do."

Jack laughs and rubs his goosebumps. "How do you renew yourself, Hic?"

"Demons don't 'renew' themselves." His voice floats throat the wooden door. "I'm given power and I use it. That's how I work. But everyone works differently. I'm interested to see what you do."

"Nothing special. It's like going to the spa." Jack looks down at his body. His hard dick, his pale, skinny legs. Pathetic. "I'll feel better for a little while, like humans do when they come home from rehab. But then I'll just get worse again. There isn't really much point to it."

"Of course there's a point. Feel good now so you can feel shitty later." Hic's wings brush against the door. The sound is grating, sandpaper on a chalkboard.

Jack shrugs.

"Don't shrug me off, you big baby warlock."

"Okay, the door is closed. How did you know I shrugged?"

"I can hear your bones moving." He stands up and his wings slap the knob. "Now go bathe in your deer blood already. I want to see you with a spring in your step, a twinkle in your eye!"

"Idiot…"

Hic's laughter is fading when Jack steps into the tub. Damn, that feels weird. It's been such a long time, he forgot how heavy blood can be. How heavy, thick, and smooth it can be. It's honey, or maybe molasses, full of sugar that settles on your tongue. Jack breathes in the metallic taste. Blood tastes like cast iron, cast iron tastes like blood. Dark red globs roll over his feet, his ankles, his shins. Now he's sitting in the thick syrup, knees tucked up to his chin. For a moment, he feels like he's gonna pass out, but he doesn't.

Warm blood cradles his body. Two seconds go by. Two pain free seconds. He smiles when lies down, his face disappearing into a sea of red.


	4. Chapter 4

Gator tails taste remarkably like chicken. Chopped into three even pieces, blood pooling on the cutting board. There's no need to cook them. Hic swallows them whole, one, two, three. They slide down, all rough and leathery against his throat. The food here is… weird. Up north, there's fish and sheep and barrels of ale. Down here, there's skinny deer and alligators and water full of mosquito larvae.

Jack's been in the tub for a while. Hic goes outside, then comes back in. He drifts through the swamp, hunting and pulling up clumps of night blooming jasmine.

He's hungry. Shadow jumping is exhausting, his wings are sore. With each kill, his strength returns. Taking care of a sick warlock is gonna be a pain in the ass. He can feel it. Might as well stock up on the essentials. Thick slabs of deer meat, lean hindquarters and fatty hearts. Gator tails, gator bodies, gator heads. Hic likes to suck on the algae-covered teeth. He salts some of the carcasses and hangs them in a woodshed. An abandoned little thing, he found it a few miles away from the cabin. The other pieces are wrapped in tin foil and shoved into the freezer. But humans can't just eat meat, right? They need other shit, too. So Hic collects cat-tails and large American cranberries and dogtooth violets. He jumps to another part of town and finds a private orange grove. Some fieldworker almost screams when he sees a horned shadow in the darkness. But it's just a trick of the light, a symptom of exhaustion and underpaid hours. There's no way in hell a demon just stole oranges, right?

If Hic could shapeshift, this would be a lot easier. No one gave him that power, though. The devil drew his name out of a hat and said, "Shadow jumper."

Now he's stuck foraging for food while others stroll right into Publix, their forked tongues hidden behind their teeth.

There are herbs growing on windowsills. Cracked pots full of mint and sage. He only takes the plants, leaving the pots behind. The cabin smells like meat and peppermint now. Not a bad combination. Hic sits on the wooden floor and sighs.

"Guess I'm just gonna sit here. Yep. Sit here and wait."

There are stray threads all over his jeans. He counts each one and pulls them out. One hundred, one hundred and one, one hundred and two…

"Holy shit. I can't take it anymore." Groaning, he lies on the floor. Muscles stretch tight, bones pop. His bare skin is covered in freckles and scales and scars. He's an alligator. Maybe he would taste like chicken, too…

So now he's eating gator tails and sitting on the stove. Nails as black as the stove eyes, feet as cold as the empty oven. One, two, three, the tails are gone. Hic sighs again.

He's bored. The nights are hot and sticky, the humidity as heavy as perfume. Cicadas saw their legs together. And they never, ever stop. Hic rolls his eyes and covers his ears. Fucking bugs, I hope your legs fall off. There's nothing to do here, the cabin is creaking and the rain is rolling down the rooftop. Hic stands on the porch, watching the moon. It's fat tonight. Swollen like a hemp seed, swollen like Jack's stomach.

Yeah, Hic's read about Kronos Disease. He knows what it does, how it taints the blood and turns it into tar. How it starts deep in the bowels, moving up into the lungs and throat. And then the blood around your brain starts to turn. It burns red hot, eyes bulging in your skull. It's a slow rejection of the body's blood, of all the natural things in life. Hic likes to read medical journals. The libraries in limbo are always well-stocked. A famous demon named Fishlegs publishes a new journal every few years. They're always about mortal diseases, ranging from human illnesses like scarlet fever to the more magical ones. Hic memorizes the pages.

Page 582 of Volume 2345 describes Kronos Disease. Not much is known, it is a rare disease. But there's enough to make your stomach turn. So much blood, so many different ways to bleed. You can cough up blood, you can puke blood, you can shit blood, you can bleed through your eyes. Thank the gods Jack isn't doing that yet.

Right now, Jack is dead in the water. Buried beneath blood, he doesn't breathe or blink. The bathroom is silent, the smudged mirror reflecting the bare wall. There's nothing here. Just the smell of wood and heat, the color white draped over everything. A lightbulb dangles from the ceiling, there are a few stripped wires. Jack lies on his back, only his knees are visible. Pale hands grip the edge of the tub. Under the surface, his eyes are wide open.

No heartbeat. No movement. Just a white, rigid body that could be made of wax. But of course, he's more than a wax doll.

He's a fuck doll. A burning brain and hot veins, his lips dripping with saliva. Long Bambi-legs, don't you forget it. He's the talk of the town, the boy that everyone wants to be. He had muscles once, maybe he can have them again. A toned ass that you could smother yourself in, a stomach like a washboard. As he sleeps in the tub, he dreams of sex. It's an encounter that never happened. Or maybe it did happen and he just forgot.

Whatever it is, it's amazing. A faceless, nameless person writhes beneath him. Jack fucks them hard and they claw at his back with fingernails made of lead. Tangles of hair, tangles of spit. They frantically grind against each other until Jack's insides are burning. Really, really burning. They're in the middle of a chalk circle, candles blazing around them. Someone is panting in his ear. Turn around and there's another person. This one has yellow eyes and a dick that makes Jack's mouth water. With fingernails made of onyx, they flip him over and take him from behind. And the other is kissing his face and stroking his temples. Another is rubbing his spine. Soon there are a dozen of them. Some beg to be penetrated, others fuck his open mouth with their fingers. Hands run up and down his body. Run, rove, slap, stroke. He's on his back and they're licking his abdomen. The skeletal highway is full of fingers and tongues. From collarbone to pelvis.

Jack shudders and moans. Someone sits on his dick and starts to ride him. Gods, their inside is so wet and warm. Their outside is dry and cold. They thrust, their knees scraping the floor, while someone else kisses Jack on the mouth. Kisses taste like rose petals, dead, dried rose petals. Jack moans against their lips, his face burning. But then pain blooms in the center of his body. Sudden, sharp, it's the feeling of blood curdling in your intestines.

Shivering, he tries to sit up. Fingernails made of ebony push him back down.

"No… stop… I-I'm gonna be sick."

"No. You're not."

The voice is everywhere. In his head, his bones. They speak at once. They hold him down and kiss his ribcage. A pair of sweet, heavy lips drag across his stomach. Someone kisses him on the mouth again and that wakes him up.

Now he's floating in a pool of stars. From a wax doll to a fuck doll to a magic doll. The sky stretches out, full of fat stars and meteors. Jack lies in shallow water, a pair of antlers next to his head, a bird skeleton at his feet. Weeds grow in the spaces between his fingers. What is this place?

Silence.

Cold.

A heat that pulses through the Earth.

Jack can feel the energy flowing into him. River of magic that mix with his veins and rush into his brain. He calls them all forward, these tiny branches of power. They're hiding in the bedrock, next to the velociraptor fossils and broken spearheads. Jack lets it fill him up, every nook and cranny.

The voice returns. "This is the grace of the gods."

Jack laughs. How dare they speak of grace? This isn't grace, this is a cruel joke that will bite him in the ass. Why give him strength when he's about to die? What's the point?

But still, it's tempting. He can't even imagine what a life without pain means. He'll finally be able to sleep at night. No more constant stomachaches or headaches that make his teeth grind. No more cold sweats or vertigo or waves of nausea that leave his sheets stained for weeks. No more attacks. No more episodes. No more comments about fucking Father Time.

This won't cure him, though. Deer blood and magic can only do so much. He'll run on adrenaline for a while, and then the pain will triple and he won't be able to move. And one sticky afternoon, he'll lie down and never get up. Blood will pour from his body, his eyes will bulge.

Goodbye, Jack.

But that isn't happening yet. Right now, he's soaking up the magic. It pushes its way through his body. It fights against the clotted blood that settles in his stomach.

Remember, Jack, you have to purge yourself of this evil. You have to get all this shit out.

"F-Fuck." It's the worst feeling yet. Like someone's scrambling his insides, his stomach is rocking, his intestines are being ripped apart. Gods, fuck, gods make it stop. Make it stop!

Jack sits bolt upright in the tub, gasping and choking on the deer blood. It's everywhere, painted all over his body. Bangs plastered to his face, he can't see a thing. Not a fucking thing. But that doesn't matter. He climbs out of the tub and buries his head in the toilet. The blood is thicker than ever, it settles at the bottom of the bowl.

Jack wipes his mouth. "Disgusting." And then he throws up again.

It has to be disgusting. The ritual purges him of everything bad. Everything evil. Good health doesn't come cheap.

Two hours later, he rests his cheek against the warm wooden floor.

"Fucking finally…"

It's all gone. The black blood is somewhere in the pipes. At least, for now. When this supernatural adrenaline rush ends, he'll be right back where he started. Whatever. Feel good now so you can feel shitty later, right?

He closes his eyes and the bathroom door opens.

"Uh, Jack? You okay?"

"Oh, so now you check on me? It's been hours, asshole."

Hic shrugs. "Whatever. I don't know how long these things take. And when you started puking… well, there's no way in hell I'm gonna watch that."

"Geez, thanks." Jack sighs and rolls onto his back. "You're such a great friend."

"I never said I was your friend." Hic's claws drag across the floor. He lifts Jack up with both hands. "So, how are you? Feel refreshed?"

"I will in the morning. I feel pretty shitty now, like, everything's sore."

"That sucks." His eyes rove over Jack's body. "At least your sex drive's back. I mean, just look at your dick."

"What are you… shit." Jack's tries to cover himself but Hic's already wrapping a towel around him.

"Don't worry, it's clean. Mostly. I found it in a cabinet with a bunch of other towels and stuff." He slaps Jack's ass. "And no worries about your junk, man. It happens to everyone with a dick. Now take a cold shower or something. You're filthy."

"Yeah, I know." When he blinks, he hears the blood crack. "I'll be out soon. Uh, sorry to make you wait."

"It's fine. I've got plenty of shit to do, plenty of stuff to cook. I bet you're hungry."

Jack shrugs. "Not really. I'm just exhausted, my throat hurts, and it feels like someone beat my stomach with a mallet."

"Then I'll make you something else."

"You don't have to make me anything, Hic."

"Uh, yes, I do." He leans against the doorframe, claws tapping the wood. "I'm under contract to make you feel better. And the sooner you feel better, the sooner we can look for Father Time."

"Sounds like you've got a grudge against him."

Gods, look at those green eyes. Squinting, blazing, full of some unholy light. Hic licks his lips. "Just take a shower, Jack."

So Jack takes a shower.

There's no shower curtain, just cold ivory and rusted steel. The faucet stutters, the pipes shake. Jack stands beneath the spray. A weak stream of scalding water that drips down his body. Over shoulders and ribs and thighs. It leaves red marks on his skin, but he doesn't care. No matter how he turns the knob, the water won't get any colder. He just stands there and stares at the drain, watching the water and blood mix together. The air smells like copper. His body smells like musk and sweat. Like the red rawness of a deer's antler. Everything smells like something else.

Lightbulbs smell like darkness.

Wood smells like fire.

And clean sheets smell like shit.

The world is upside down here. In this little wooden cabin in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of a swamp. Frogs croak and gators snort and mosquitoes buzz. The moon is fat and dripping tonight, Jack feels it hovering over him. He feels everything. Vibrations in the steel, vibrations in the air. The earth rises up to meet him, it presses against his feet. He lets the water burn him, he lets the blood spiral down the drain. He lets, he lets, he lets.

So many repetitions. Water, steel, rust, blood, sweat, sex, light, darkness. He rubs his hands all over his body. The blood's rushing to his extremities, to his fingers and his toes and his dick. When he strokes it, he shudders. Wow, his sex drive is Lazarus, raised from the dead. The need to fuck is overwhelming. And there's a sexy demon in the next room…

But no, no, Jack can't ask him for sex. Hic isn't Asmodeus or some lust demon with wide hips and thick thighs. He does have a nice ass, though. Oh yeah, that ass is golden. Jack licks his lips and starts stroking his dick. Think about those Wranglers Hic was wearing, the way his ass clenched and curved and rose up out of those baggy jeans. Jack's seen a lot of nice asses in his day. The witch with the rainbow hair had a round ass, thick and juicy and soft to touch. They would roll in her bed, wrapped up in the star-spangled sheets, and Jack would grab her. She'd moan and finger herself while Jack kneaded her flesh. The warlock with golden eyes was skinny and tight. He scratched the floor every time Jack took him from behind. Smooth, gray skin that reminded Jack of marble, he was a living statue.

But those are the asses of the past. Now he has a rock hard demon ass to think about. Kneeling in the ivory tub, he jerks himself off. Knees slip and slide all over the place. His moans echo across the cabin. Who cares if the gators hear him? Hic's busy at the stove, he couldn't care less.

No one cares.

So Jack takes a shower. So Jack jerks off in the tub. And when he's done and his body is clean, he actually believes that he'll be okay. Maybe he'll be okay.

There are mason jars full of mint and sage, red solo cups full of sweet tea. This shit is good for sore throats, right? Red, raw, ripped-up throats that ooze black blood. Jack will need that, right? When humans puke, they mess up their throats. They ruin their teeth and their eyes tear up and their noses run. Hic hates seeing humans in pain. It's so awkward, the way their faces contort. He never knows what to say.

Feel better?

It's okay?

Turn that frown upside down?

Whatever. He doesn't need to say anything. He'll just stand at the stove, the heat pressing against his skin. Limbo's so hot, this is nothing. It feels good, billows of steam rolling over his chest and up his neck. Tongue between his teeth, he carries four jars at a time.

Jack's voice is like sandpaper. "I don't need that many."

Hic rolls his eyes. "You don't know what you need."

"Shut up."

"Whatever."

It's late and Jack's sitting on the bed, wrapped up in a towel. His toes are blue ivory, his fingers are numb. Everything is tired and he wants it all to be done. Hey, that kind of rhymed. Numb and done rhyme, right? Jack could be a poet, his soul is definitely tortured, his mind is definitely broken. He sits on the bed and wears the towel like a hood. Criss-crossed legs and boney arms, a mason jar in his hands.

Hic knows how to make tea. Sage tea, mint tea, iced tea that slides down Jack's throat. He hands Hic the empty jar and takes a full one. Quickly, quietly. And they drink in silence.

Rain strikes the roof, lightning leaks through the shutters. You can hear the world shaking around you. Jack and Hic sit inside this little wooden box, the storm pounding against their home. But, wait, it's not really their home. It's a shack in the middle of the swamp. Some gator poacher probably lives here in the winter. And they're trespassers, a demon and a warlock that don't belong. Still, everything seems… right. Right as the rain that drips through the ceiling.

They drink and sigh and drink some more. When Jack's stomach is full of tea and his eyes are full of sleep, he curls up at the foot of the bed.

"You're like a cat."

Jack's eyes are closed when he answers. "Thanks. I like cats, they're cool."

"Yeah, they're all right." Hic lies next to him, legs stretched out. "I like dogs more, though. I have a three-legged hellhound."

"Hellhound? Like an actual hellhound? The dogs that, uh, guard Hell?"

Hic nods. "Yep. He's big and black and he's got these massive teeth."

"What's his name?"

He raises his eyebrows. "Why? You wanna summon him or something?"

Jack tries to shake his head, but he's too tired. "No. I just like knowing people's names."

"A hellhound isn't a person. It's a hellhound."

"Whatever."

They go back to silence. It welcomes them with open arms. They drift and sigh and drift again. The rain and the lightning hangs over their heads. Look at Hic's eyes, green and full of hellfire.

Jack rubs his eyes. "Uh, thanks for the tea."

"No problem. Did it help?"

"I think so."

He cracks his knuckles one by one. "Good. I aim to please."

"Don't be a smartass." Jack's toes curl into the towel. "Now let me sleep. I've had a rough day."

"More like a rough life."

Jack's laugh sounds like sandpaper. "Don't tell me you've been creepin' on my past?"

"No. I can just tell. I can always tell." Hic pats Jack's shoulder. Once, twice, three times. "Go to sleep, little warlock. You're gonna have to start pulling your weight, and you'll need all the strength in the world."

So Jack goes to sleep.

He hates following orders, but he's feeling submissive today. And the magic is sleeping in his veins. In the morning, he'll be a new person. Happy, alive, powerful. Everyone has bad nights, right? Everyone has bad days. When the sun rises, he'll summon his cat and conjure fire in his palm. He'll turn the wooden panels into gold and create snow with his breath. Then he'll make Hic breakfast, a reminder that he's not useless.

He'll say, "I'm a warlock, bitch. I can pull my weight. I may be a fucking train wreck, but I'm still strong as Hell. Sometimes, I'm stronger than Hell. Sometimes, I'm like a fucking god."

Yeah, that's what he'll say as he flips pancakes and fries bacon. But for now, he'll sleep.

Demons don't really sleep, they hover in between worlds. Hic closes his eyes and sees different places.

The North. White glaciers and black rock, stacks of blue ice that have never been touched by human hands. He sees the snow and the white-hot sun. Look, there's a polar bear and her cubs. See them? You better run before they see you. Hic doesn't have to run, he just flies. The frost cracks when he opens his wings, when he takes to the sky. A group of explorers saw him once. Big deal. They were malnourished and hypothermic, the worst combination. Hic threw them a dead seal and disappeared into the frost.

He could hear them arguing.

"The fuck was that?"

"A demon…"

"No, no, it was a chupacabra."

"No, dumbass, that makes no sense."

They talked about Hic as they bit through the blubber.

The North is faraway. He won't be going back anytime soon. There are other places, hidden caves and foggy islands. Having wings makes it easy to get around.

One time, he flew with the geese when they migrated south. He's followed airplanes into the clouds, kept jumbo jets aloft and pushed drones to the ground. Hic can do whatever he wants. No one ever summons him, the devil never calls him home. The supernatural world forgets about him and his love for humans. That unnatural love that brings him down.

But screw that. Demons can love whatever they want… right? Hell, there's so many questions. Why is he here? What is he doing? Who is Jack and what does he really want? It doesn't matter. None of it fucking matter. All Hic has to do is help Jack and find Father Time. Maybe things will be different this time, maybe he'll get his wish.

Oh, silly Hiccup. Father Time isn't a genie, remember?

Hic shakes his head. "I don't even care. Just forget it."

He rolls onto his stomach and pretends to sleep.


End file.
